An Hour With Wilbur Robinson
by Amazon-Aviator
Summary: As seen on LiveJournal: In which Wilbur Robinson gets the best idea of his young life. Possibly the author's worst. WilWil, nonexplicit.
1. The Idea

A/N: So back in April when everyone else was shipping Wilbur/Lewis, I totally built my own bandwagon. I wrote this story and put it on LJ and for _some_ reason (go figure fangirls?) I got a lot of attention for it. I don't know guys, when it comes to shipping Meet the Robinsons, my OTP is Wilbur/Wilbur. Like, forever and always.

Rated PG-13 for mild clumy teenage gropings and what could amount to extremely complicated masturbation. Don't think about it too hard, your brain might break.

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It is a little known fact that Wilbur Robinson cannot get a date to save his life

This is through no fault of his own, of course. It is certainly not his lack of charisma or personality, for he is well liked among his peers and wildly popular; nor is he not suitably attractive, because he _is_, on one of his good days, _ridiculously_ so. When he enters a room, teenage girls swallow their tongues and teenage boys go green with envy and, in a few unsurprising cases, vice versa.

The trouble begins when Wilbur approaches one of these voiceless girls (and on one occasion, he is not too proud to admit, one of the voiceless boys) they remain voiceless. It's very difficult to carry on a conversation with a person who has simultaneously lost their nerve and ability to form coherent speech, and while Wilbur Robinson is many things, he is not the type to spend a significant amount of time with someone who cannot, at the very least, laugh at his jokes.

It should also be noted that he does not have many friends to speak of, if one doesn't count Carl, the family robot, and a boy from the past who will one day be his father. There was a time when children would have traded their own parents to spend a day with Wilbur Robinson, but that time seems to have passed, for while Billie's life sized trains and Gaston's live artillery were great fun in the eyes of a child, it cannot be ignored that Wilbur and his peers are now teenagers, and as anyone who has ever been a teenager can attest, teenagers often have vastly different ideas of "fun."

(Wilbur of course, does not agree with his peers in this department. Wilbur is not quite the genius his parents might have expected, but he has the foresight enough to realize that teenagers have an unfortunate tendency to want to conform, as if it were some curious side affect of puberty, akin to acne and bad taste in clothes. But at his very core, Wilbur is a Robinson, and anyone who has spent any amount of time with a Robinson knows that the Robinsons don't conform.)

So through no fault of his own is Wilbur dateless, friendless and endlessly frustrated. He is loathe to admit it, but he wouldn't know what to do with a girl (or boy, for that matter (well, this is not entirely true. He has a _vague_ idea, being of the male persuasion himself)) even if he _could_ get one to talk to him. He routinely inspects himself critically in a mirror and likes what he sees: sleek, perfect hair; dark, expressive eyes; good, clear skin. He likes the quirk of his smile and the line of his jaw. He has a good nose. Puberty has been kind to him; other boys his height and build have gone all lanky, all sharp knees and elbows, but Wilbur's slimness translates to a smooth, fluid, graceful line, and he admires it.

_You, my friend,_ he thinks smugly at the mirror, preening his hair and oozing the exact sort of confidence he is famous (and infamous) for, _are one good-looking kid. Who wouldn't want a piece of this?_

It is at this precise moment that Wilbur Robinson gets the worst or possibly best idea of his young life.

The idea comes slowly, in stages, because he cannot believe he has thought what he thinks he just thought, and the really amazing thing is that he can see it happening, in his own eyes, in the mirror, and it makes the worst or possibly best idea of his young life just _that_ much more real, because just as he is thinking "I am _brilliant_," another part of him is thinking "Oh, man, brilliance is _hot_." He is suddenly so taken with his own cleverness that the worst or _probably_ best idea of his young life seems more feasible with every passing second. He gives himself one last, fierce stare in the mirror, ignoring the little part of him that insists the _definitely_ best idea of his young life might actually be _bad_, but since Wilbur has an incredible amount of experience ignoring that little part of himself, it is no surprise that he can turn away from the mirror and march to the garage with the very confidence he is so famous (and infamous) for.

By the time he has locked himself securely in the garage, the idea has become a plan. An utterly foolproof, brilliant plan that requires no actual effort on Wilbur's part. At least not yet. At precisely 2 p.m. in the afternoon, Wilbur stands before the time machine – the blue one, with the nice back seat – and makes a decision that will effortlessly put the unarguably best plan of his young life into action.

"At five o' clock," he says aloud to no one, enjoying the smooth sound of his own voice, "I will take the time machine back to two o'clock."

And it's as easy as that, because before the words have left his tongue, there is flash of light and the familiar sound of soap bubbles popping and an extra time machine in the garage, and Wilbur Robinson is staring quite dumbly up at himself, behind the controls. The Wilbur in the time machine is looking very sly and proud of himself.

"It worked," he announces, reclining to sling one slim arm over the back of his seat and prop his feet up on the dashboard. Wilbur-on-the-ground can't help but notice he looks very cocky like this, and he is very slightly irritated, but not so much so that he can't also admit he is one _smooth_ operator. Wilbur-in-the-time-machine is still giving him a sort of half-lidded leer and a quirky smirk. "We've only got a few hours," he says, checking the little clock in the dash. "Are we gonna do this or not? That's a rhetorical question, actually. I'm from the future." He thumbs his chest and grins a truly dashing grin. "I already know the answer."

So Wilbur hefts himself easily into the time machine and sits beside himself. "Backseat," his future self instructs as he closes the hood and initiates the cloaking devices. Wilbur obliges and climbs gracelessly into the backseat, absently wondering why his father felt the need to build a full size time machine if they had never once taken it on a family vacation and _oh man_, if he only knew how it were being used now, they never will. It makes his cheeks flush pink, thinking about it.

"You're cute when you blush," his future self teases as he slides into the backseat beside him.

"This is _so_ messed up," Wilbur blurts, feeling that little part of himself he is so used to ignoring reasserting itself. "There is probably something very wrong with me for even _thinking_ about doing this." He is blushing even harder.

"Everybody does it," Future Wilbur says silkily as he scoots a little closer, casually draping an arm over Present Wilbur's shoulders. "Most kids just aren't lucky enough to have the means to do it so _well_." His fingers slide down Wilbur's upper arm and back up again, slipping under his sleeve. It's a simple motion, hardly indecent at all, but it feels strangely intimate and erotic and Wilbur can't figure out why, because it's just his arm, and _his_ hand to boot, right? He touches his own arm experimentally, but it doesn't illicit _quite_ the same feeling as when the other Wilbur does it.

Just as he is about to experiment further, he feels a sudden warmth on the side of his face because Future Wilbur has taken advantage of this moment of analytical distraction to lean over and press his lips gently against the curiously sensitive place just below his ear and Present Wilbur's brain responds by reeling and splintering, and he suddenly very seriously does not care about the psychological mechanics of auto-erotica as much as he cares about feeling this way as long and as powerfully as humanly possible. He turns to his future self with wide, astonished brown eyes and a slack jaw and manages maybe two shaky breaths before the two of them are a clumsy tangle of one hungry boy on the back seat of his father's time machine.

_My first kiss,_ Wilbur has only just enough brainpower to think, _is with myself. This is __**so**__ wrong._ But he doesn't waste any more energy on the idea, because his t-shirt is being pulled roughly from the waist of his jeans and unpracticed hands are moving over his skin, finding exciting places on his body he had never even _considered_ exploring on his own. He isn't quite sure how he got on his back so quickly and he doesn't particularly care, because he finds the weight and warmth of his own slim frame really very comforting. Later, he might be disturbed by the memory of reaching up pull his own sleek, black hair or of engaging in a positively _bruising_, breathless kiss with his own mouth, but at this moment, when his future self straddles his thigh with such intimate force that it makes him gasp _in stereo_, Wilbur Robinson knows this is the _best_ idea he will ever have in his life, young or otherwise.

Unfortunately, it is at the _precise_ moment that his clumsy idiot fingers manage (after many frustratingly long minutes) to comprehend the complexities of the modern belt buckle, that the boys are rudely interrupted by, of all horrors, the harsh metallic clang of the garage door. Two pairs of identical eyes meet in panic.

"It's three o'clock," Future Wilbur says, without looking at the dash.

"What?"

"We're about to get busted."

_"WHAT?!"_ Wilbur struggles out from under himself, but as he sits up, he can see it's too late. Cornelius Robinson has just walked straight into the invisible wing of the time machine, and doom is imminent. He has enough sense to buckle up his pants and shove Future Wilbur's t-shirt at him, but he's still struggling to pull it over his head when his father's sharp blue eyes find him in the most compromising position of his young life.

And it even takes Cornelius Robinson, certified genius, a great many agonizingly slow minutes to comprehend what he is seeing, because he cannot believe he has seen what he thinks he just saw.

When he finally speaks, it is with a slow and very controlled voice. "Which one of you belongs here?" he demands.

Wilbur's eyes dart to his future self, flush-faced and disheveled. It's a kind of irrational agony he suffers, seeing his hair so imperfect, and the compulsion to reach out and fix it is only just _barely_ quelled by his father's icy stare.

"M...me," he admits in a voice far too small to be his own. Cornelius reaches out to grab him forcefully by the arm, but seems to think better of it at the last moment.

"Get out of there. You are grounded. Forever." He turns to Future Wilbur. "_You_, go back to whenever you came from _so I can ground you again._"

As he is climbing out of the time machine, Future Wilbur grabs his arm and holds him back for a moment. He quirks one slick black eyebrow at him and grins. "It was totally worth it," he whispers. "Regret nothing."

"NOW," Cornelius bellows, scaring Wilbur to the garage floor. He runs halfway to his room, but not before he catches a glimpse of his future self behind the wheel of the time machine.

_Five o'clock_, he mouths with a diabolical smirk.

Five o'clock. Wilbur has two hours to devise the second best idea of his young life, get back to the garage and back to two o'clock in the afternoon. Because he's right, it was _totally_ worth it.


	2. Interlude

"An Hour with Wilbur Robinson" consists of three parts, the latter two of which are not really important but I was begged by rabid fans to write them so I did. The second part is here, and it is really more of an interlude than a sequel. The third part is really horribly written porn, and will not be uploaded here. It's at my journal, but friends-locked. If you simply cannot live without reading amateur smut of Wilbur blowing himself, I think we can work something out. :3

* * *

Wilbur is thoroughly grounded for life after his last escapade with the time machine, but he's not confined to his room. He's just not allowed to speak to anyone, have fun, _think_ about having fun, think about _thinking_ about having fun, and he's _definitely_ not allowed within 30 feet of the garage. Carl has strict orders to keep a sharp eye on him, but keep his distance, because Carl would probably be the _first_ to fall victim to Wilbur's sweet talk. It would not be the first time Wilbur has talked a bit of sentient Robinson machinery into doing his bidding, and Cornelius will take no chances. Wilbur is already spending an extraordinary amount of time with his head in the refrigerator, and considering how slippery he is, even that arouses suspicion. Cornelius very seriously thinks his son is entirely capable of convincing the leftovers to dig him a tunnel to freedom. He decides a very quick and incredibly painful punishment is probably the best course of action, because though he won't admit it to anyone, a very small but incredibly significant part of him is pained by Wilbur's prolonged misery, no matter how much he deserves it.

"Wilbur," he says through his newspaper, and he can sense the boy cringing at the sound of his voice. Wilbur peeks very cautiously over the top edge of the fridge door, making his eyes as brown and wet and sympathetic as possible. He fails completely. "Son, come have a seat."

Wilbur knows this is going to be bad. He just doesn't know _how_ bad. The walk across the floor from the fridge to the kitchen counter where his father is waiting for him _almost_ feels longer than the march from the garage to his bedroom after the _last_ time he was busted (It was _not_ worth it, he tells himself repeatedly, but though Wilbur is an _expert_ liar, he cannot deny the experience, though brief, was thoroughly _awesome_). He oozes miserably onto the bar stool beside his father and puts on what he hopes is a very convincing pout.

"We need to have a talk," Cornelius begins, after spending a particularly long eternity folding and rearranging his newspaper.

Wilbur sighs. "I said I was sorry. I did a very irresponsible thing and I have learned from my mistake," he drones, quoting from the lecture permanently burned into his brain. "I-understand-the-risks-and-dangers-of-time-travel-and-I-acknowledge-that-the-space/time-continuum-is-a-very-delicate-and-"

"No," Cornelius says with a very level, slightly terrifying voice. "Not that kind of talk."

He takes a very slow drink from his coffee as he lets Wilbur figure it out.

Wilbur's heart stops for several horrifying seconds. When it starts again, his brain kicks into overdrive, checking escape routes, taking inventory of the kitchen appliances and which ones he can persuade to mutiny, and just generally willing the earth to swallow him whole. "Dad-" he tries, but Cornelius is having none of that.

"You're not a child anymore," Cornelius starts with such genuine empathy that Wilbur thinks, for one misguided moment, that this might actually be bearable. "You proved that much to me the other day-"

Wilbur's ears go red. "Dad..."

"In fact, we probably should have had this talk sooner-"

"Dad, _please_-"

"Now, son, when two people love each other very much-"

"_Ohmigod._"

"Or, I suppose, in _your_ case, when _one_ person-"

"AUGH. DAD." Wilbur is fairly certain he can convince the toaster to kill him now and no one would blame him.

"Now, I'm not saying what you're feeling is _wrong_-"

"Please stop. _Please_ stop."

"-I commend you for exploring these feelings in a secure environment with ...er...someone you're _familiar_ with-"

_Kill me now, kill me now, please,_ he silently begs anything in the room with a sharp edge or long cord or more than 60 watts. _Please make it stop._

"-there are better, _safer_ ways to go about this sort of thing-"

Wilbur whines, actually very nearly _cries_, and buries his face in his hands.

"It's not the _sex_ your mother and I are upset about-"

"AHH I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING," Wilbur wails in despair, because for the love of god, he _didn't_. (Yet.)

"It's the psychological ramifications of being in a sexual relationship with yourself-"

"Holy!... Dad, I'm not taking myself to _prom_!! It's not a _relationship!_" Wilbur is very seriously on the verge of tears. He hadn't realized how incredibly painful this could be; until now, the lectures had all been about the time machine, about messing with the time stream. Never once had his father mentioned catching him trying to make time with himself.

"Good. As long as we're in agreement." Cornelius tucks his paper under his arm and drains his mug of coffee. "You're smarter than you give yourself credit for, Wilbur." He reaches down and ruffles Wilbur's hair and it is a statement as to how deeply Wilbur is in agony that he doesn't even _protest_ this unforgivable assault.

"Guuuuuuh," he moans noncommittally into the marble counter top.

"Atta boy. Listen, I think we can agree that this has been punishment enough. I'll let your mother know you're free to go."

As he leaves, Wilbur silently resolves to get to the time machine the very next chance he gets, because _someone_ in 2007 is just _asking_ for a good, solid punch in the arm.

And after that, well...as long as he promises not to fall in love with himself, he really isn't hurting anyone. Right?


	3. The Inner Child

Sorry to disappoint, but this is not Chapter 3 of _An Hour with Wilbur Robinson_. (If you want that, email me-- amazon(underscore)aviator84 (at) yahoo (dot) com.) Seriously, I send it to someone every week; I won't think you're a Pervy McPerverson for asking. Nor is this an entire fic in its own right. If you want the whole thing, well, you know what to do. Oh, and mention which one you want by name: An Hour chapter three OR The Inner Child OR both. (**ETA: **I also have a newly minted AFF account. See my profile for details.

This is a partial fic because there are some age discrepancies here that make for some awkward pseudo-smut that is probably not allowed on ffdotnet. Shota if you're savvy, statutory if you're not (though if it's the _same person_ is it really an issue?) Moral and ethical dilemmas I'd rather not spend the brainpower fussing over.

Tl;dr: if you want to read about college freshman!Wilbur fooling around (hand job) with eighth grade!Wilbur, you won't find it here. BUT YOU CAN ASK ME FOR IT, and you shall receive.

* * *

College is kind of lame, as far as Wilbur Robinson is concerned. It takes him all of _one week_ to learn that everyone is either a) completely and totally obsessed with studies or b) utterly, stupidly drunk, _all the time_. None of his friends from high school had the good grace to stay home and attend M.U. with him, and he's finding it rather difficult to make new friends that aren't permanently inebriated or major brainiac head cases (like he doesn't get enough of that at home.) because The classes are pretty decent, though, but that may be because he has a distinct advantage over his classmates. One he'd be willing to share if they'd take their noses out of their books or beer steins for half a minute.

His parents have talked him into living at home for his first year, he lets them think _he_ thinks it's to spare them Empty Nest Syndrome, when he knows it's because he's _still_ seeing the shrink after that embarrassing episode during freshman year in high school and they want to keep an eye on him and make sure he continues treatment. It hasn't been much of an issue lately; Wilbur's had a steady boyfriend since junior year, but he's gone away to college on the east coast, and they're afraid he'll get restless. Not that they want to keep him under lock and key or anything. Just, you know, make sure he doesn't blow off his sessions or anything.

Fat lot of good it does them.

The moment he returns home from class one late autumn afternoon, Wilbur is assaulted by some strange, small creature, zipping around him in circles, moving so fast that every time Wilbur turns to get a look at it, it just barely evades the edge of his vision so that he feels like a dog chasing its tail. It chirps things like "So cool!" and "No _way!_" in a disturbingly familiar voice as it starts plucking at his clothes, lifting the hem of his t-shirt and testing the fit of his jeans, and when there is an unmistakable _hand on his ass_, Wilbur shoots both arms out so that the speedy little creature runs headlong into his grasp. The creature, a boy, skinny, black haired, dark eyed, staggers for a moment, then rights himself and grins. Wilbur gapes for a moment, and then he starts to laugh. He laughs so hard he has to let the boy go and sit down and clutch his stomach. He laughs so hard tears roll down his face.

A much younger, smaller Wilbur stands with his hands on his skinny hips and wants to know what's so damn funny.

Wilbur giggles and wipes at his face. "I..." he starts, and can't finish. Another fit of laughter takes him. Young Wilbur stamps his foot in a manner that is all too childish and points an accusing finger at his older counterpart, who is hiccupping into a pillow.

"I didn't come here so you could spend all day _laughing_ at me!"

"No, you didn't." Wilbur grins knowingly. "To what _do_ I owe this visit, o inner child?"

"First of all, _not a child_, okay? I'm thirteen. Technically, I'm a teenager, _just like you_. Second of all...well, you probably know why I'm here." He lids his eyes and tries to look condescending or alluring or _something_, and fails utterly. Wilbur swallows another bark of laughter and tries to look serious.

"It's been a long time. Refresh my memory?"

"I was _hoping_...you might teach me a few things."

"Prehistoric art and architecture?" Wilbur offers, holding up a lessonfile from today's lecture.

"No...what?" Young Wilbur snatches it from him and squints at the label. "I'm a _history_ major? Lame!" He tosses the disk over his shoulder. "No. You _know_ what I want you to teach me."

He moves close in a way that might be suggestive, if he were not still wrestling with puberty. Wilbur tries very hard not to laugh in his face. He is so little and so serious and so _bad at this_, he wonders what it is he ever saw in himself.

"Oh. That." He nods solemnly and settles into his "sexy" mode. He smolders down at the boy and tilts his hips just so, cocks his head, smiles a little. His younger self quakes in his high tops.

"Oh my god," he breathes, "I am so hot."

"Mmm," the older, wiser Wilbur hums. "You _will_ be." Then, like flipping a light switch, he turns off the charm and snatches the little boy by the ear. "Right now you are skinny jailbait. _Go home._"

"This _is_ my home!" Little Wilbur whines in pain. "And you can't go to jail for messing around with me, I'm _you!_" He struggles and kicks and pushes at the older Wilbur. Then he hesitates, stops struggling, and in one fluid movement, shoves both is hands up the front of his captor's shirt for a quick feel. Wilbur yelps and pushes him away.

They stand ten feet apart at opposite ends of the room, like duelers in an old western. Young Wilbur preens his hair. His older counterpart watches suspiciously. This child cannot be trusted. Everything he says is a carefully measured tactic, a bullet point in the master plan. Operation: Get into Wilbur Robinson's Pants.

"C'mon," the boy chides. "At least let me _look_ a little. There's no harm in looking. 'If you've got it' and all that." Appealing to his vanity. Nice try.

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Just a peek! For now. I mean, you're _me_, I'll see it sooner or later, right?" Logic. Impressive.

"In that case, when you're older you can look all you want. You can look to your perverted little heart's content, I promise."

The boy rolls his eyes. "That's not what I meant." He twists his mouth and taps his chin, thinking. "Okay, how about this. A compromise. Just take off your shirt. No funny business." He holds up one hand and mimes _Scout's honor_, as if the Scouts gave merit badges for this sort of situation. Bargaining. He's getting desperate.

"I'm going to do my homework now. You are going to home and get off like a _normal_ boy. _By yourself_."

"You should know," Young Wilbur says, scowling, "I grow up to be a total party pooper."

"Yes. Well. You've got plenty of time to cope with that." He smiles inwardly, victorious.

"You haven't heard the last of me."

Victorious, for now.

Wilbur knows, better than anyone, how relentless he can be. He is manipulative and clever and slipperier than an eel in a vat of astroglide. It would be a surprise to no one that he does not trust himself, and if anyone knew he was constantly looking over his shoulder and locking doors and checking dark closets because he has grown so paranoid by the prospect of being stalked by a younger version of _himself_, they would probably just nod, pat him on the back and wish him good luck with that. Another day in the life for Wilbur Robinson.

That isn't to say he's _told_ anybody. Telling anyone would land him in therapy again, for a very, _very_ long time. It's fortunate for him that everyone thinks he's busy with homework, locked in his room for the sake of studying and grades and not _crippling paranoia_, except for Carl, of course, who _knows_ better. Carl is taking Wilbur's spontaneous anti-social behavior personally, with that special sort of vehement passive-aggressiveness he is so good at. It involves a lot of irritated sighing and grumbling and creaking, grinding gears. If he wanted to draw attention to himself, Wilbur would _totally_ call him on it, because, what the hell, under any other circumstance, Wilbur would be talking Carl into some fantastic new method of getting knee-deep in trouble and Carl would be stubbornly defiant and complain about what a _bad influence_ Wilbur is and how he's supposed to be _responsible_ and it's his job keep an eye on Wilbur and on and on and _on_. And then Wilbur would pout a little and make with big brown puppy-dog eyes and that would be the end of that charade. It would be so easy to say, "Look, you're always acting like hanging out with me is such a chore, now you're free, so get lost and quit sulking!" but then Carl would have to admit that he doesn't really mean it and they'd be forced to have one of those awful sappy Hallmark, BFF moments with a high probability of using the _L_ word and just...god, no. Wilbur can't call him out, that would just be cruel. He'll find a way to make it up to Carl, when this is over.

Fortunately for Carl, (and not so much for Wilbur,) after three weeks of peering around corners and obsessively locking and unlocking doors and jumping at every small sound and sleeping through HIS 4620 20th Century Military History (well...okay, he probably would have slept through that _anyway_), it happens.

He stumbles home from class at about two in the afternoon, kicks off his shoes, dumps his laptop about three feet short of the corner of his desk, climbs to the loft and crawls into bed, exhausted. He's asleep before his head hits the pillow, _real_ sleep, not that half-assed semi-alert sleep that has been plaguing his nights or the drowsy, on-and-off nodding sleep in lectures. Real sleep. He snores. Possibly, he dreams.

But not for long.

He wakes to find a pair of alert brown eyes mere _inches_ from his own.

"AAHHH!!" he screams, scrambling backwards in shock until he tumbles off the opposite side of the bed in a tangle of blankets and dirty laundry. After a moment, his head pops up so that his eyes are level with the mattress.

His younger self sits up and preens. "You look like an angel when you're asleep," he says, grinning. "Isn't that a trip?"

"Y-_you_," Wilbur accuses, stuttering in horror. "How did you--?"

"The door?" he says smartly, and, as an afterthought, "Obviously."

He closes his eyes and sinks back down to the floor. Of course. He didn't lock the door. He remembers, now, too late. Three weeks of vigilance and one moment of forgetfulness, that's all it takes. He rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes and groans.

Little Wilbur appears over the edge of the mattress, his chin propped in his hands. "Don't act like you aren't happy to see me."

"I'm _not_," he snaps. But he is, kind of, the way someone might be happy to have a leg amputated, to keep infection from spreading. Now that it's done, it can't possibly get any worse.

"Awww," Young Wilbur pouts in mock disappointment. He scuttles away as his older self climbs shakily to his feet. Wilbur knows he is keeping just out of arm's reach; it's hard to be strangled to death with the bed separating them.

"Question," The young one begins, when the sight of his older self tottering sleepily and looking remarkably less-than-svelte makes him quirk an eyebrow "You're a nervous wreck."

"That's not a question."

"_Why_ are you a nervous wreck?"

Wilbur swallows. "You've been following me."

"You know I haven't."

Of course he knows. It's only been a day, tops, for the little one. Sneaky, clever, smirking, manipulative, adorable little _shit_.

"I..."

"You knew I'd come." Smirk. God, if he could reach, he'd smack that smug little smirk right off his smug little _extremely_ cute face. He'd never succeed though. The kid is too fast and too _well rested._

"I didn't know _when_." He thinks for a minute. Amends, "I didn't _remember_ when."

"What else do you know?" He knows. He doesn't _know_, he assumes. But he assumes correctly. And he knows he's right.

"I can change it," he says, though he isn't sure he can.

"Can you?" Little Wilbur counters, too smart. "What else would be changed?"

"I could kill you." He means it as a joke, but really, that's starting to sound like a pretty good idea.

Young Wilbur laughs his mean, childish laugh. "That wouldn't bode well for _you_."

"No, but I at least I could get some freaking _sleep_," he spits. The minute he says it, _sleep_, his eyelids flutter. He doesn't suppose his young self would be interested in cuddling. No, no, he remembers, he doesn't consider cuddling a viable form of intimacy until he's almost fifteen, when he starts to mellow out a little. Damn it.

He sighs, resigned.

"I give up," Wilbur groans, collapsing spread-eagled across his bed. "I can't. You win. I'm _so tired_."

Young Wilbur hesitates. Of course he knows better than to trust himself. This is a trick. "Yeah, right," he chides, but doubtfully.

"Look, I'm not going to fight you anymore. I haven't had a decent night's sleep in _days_, I can't stay awake in class. Just...do whatever it is you want to me so I can get some peace. Put me out of my misery."

"No way. That was too easy."

"For _you!_" Wilbur tries to argue, but really, what's the point? He can't even muster the energy to raise his voice. Paranoia has taken its toll. He's been defeated. "You didn't even have to do anything. Did you know I'd go insane or are you just lucky?"

"Of course I knew," his younger self lies. He rolls his eyes like, _duh, I knew exactly what I was doing, I'm awesome._

Wilbur grunts noncommittally. Young Wilbur climbs up onto the bed with the weightless grace of a cat and settles next to his hip. He sits cross-legged and clears his throat.

"What are you waiting for?" Wilbur says, bitterly. He opens one eye to peer at his own young, attractive face skeptically.

Young Wilbur clears his throat and picks at an imaginary piece of lint on the bedspread. "Well..."

"Well, what?"

"It's just...I didn't come here to try and seduce you. Not at first, anyway." He grins. When Wilbur doesn't comment, the grin falters and he continues. "I wanted you to teach me _how_ to...well," he chuckles nervously. It's oddly endearing. "How to _lots_ of things."

"I said I wouldn't fight you anymore."

"But you're supposed to _like_ it. You won't like it if I don't know what I'm doing."

"Oh, wow, being molested by a thirteen year old boy. What's not to like?" He punctuates his sarcasm with a yawn.

"That's not fair! I'm hot and you know it. You _used_ to think so."

"And my parents have the therapy bills to prove it." He sighs and turns to give his young self his full attention. "If I do what you want, will you go away? Seriously? I have a lot going for me right now. I have a serious boyfriend and I'm only seeing the shrink twice a month. That's pretty major. I don't need you screwing that up."

"Sorry I made your life so _miserable_," Young Wilbur says dramatically, rolling his eyes. He pouts that same pout that melts Carl every single time. Wilbur realizes what he's been putting his friend through all these years. "Fine, forget it." He moves to climb off the bed, but a hand catches the back of his shirt.

"I don't ever remember being a quitter." His voice is dark and adult and sends a shiver of something warm through Young Wilbur's stomach. Suddenly, his voice doesn't have that weary/exhausted/I'd-rather-die edge to it, anymore. He settles back onto the bed again, acutely aware of his back against Wilbur's hip. "And I never said you aren't hot."

"But-" the boy begins to protest, until Wilbur cuts him off.

"Those things you wanted me to teach you. Is one of them how to kiss?"

"No," his young counterpart begins, insulted. "I _know_ how to..." He stops, thinks, and backpedals. "I mean, yes. Yes, I want you to teach me how to kiss."

"Smart boy."


End file.
